


The Cottage, the Serpent

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Self-indulgent fluff about learning to share a cottage and a life with a demon who is also a snake.





	The Cottage, the Serpent

One of the oddest aspects of living with Crowley full-time was Aziraphale’s discovery that his demon spent far more time as a snake than he’d ever suspected. 

In all the millennia they’d known each other, Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s snake form exactly twice. The first time had been the day they met, when Crowley had been huge, four times longer than any angel, his voice a sinuous hiss until he joined Aziraphale on the wall in the human form the angel had grown used to later. 

The second time was in February of 1947, when the temperature plummeted below 0 and snow piled up around the country. Roads were blocked, food became scarce, and electricity failed throughout the city. Aziraphale had been warm and safe in his shop – indeed, despite his feelings about customers, he took in a number of guests over the months, most short term and sleeping on the floors of the shop under piles of miracled blankets – when Crowley arrived. Though wrapped in a long fur coat, he’d been positively blue, and so lethargic Aziraphale realized he was close to discorporating. He’d ushered his friend (more than, and he knew, but neither said a word) into the little used bedroom, stripped him, wrapped him back up in warm tartan, and tucked him close to the conveniently appearing fireplace. He’d brought in hot water bottles and gone to make tea. When he came back, Crowley was gone – or, no. He was a snake, perhaps seven feet long, curled up desperately under the covers and clothing and directly on top of the hot water bottles. He’d stayed that way for two weeks, asleep, before stumbling out in his human guise and never saying anything about it.

It turned out, however, that on his own time, Crowley spent an average of several hours a week in his full demon form. He never explained why, of course, because Crowley never explained anything if he could get away with it, even after shared love confessions and moving to the country and melding all their belongings (even The Statue, though Aziraphale had put his foot down about giving it pride of place in the living room). No, he just showed up, here and there, as a great black snake with a lovely red stomach, of varying sizes. 

The first time this happened was when Aziraphale went out into the garden on a hot, sunny day to sip some tea and found the love of his extremely long life curled lazily on a large, flat rock he was fairly certain hadn’t been there the day before. 

Naturally, he knew that no snakes of this size and coloration were to be found in England (in fact, the combination was not to be found anywhere; the snake on earth that looked closest to Crowley was an American species that grew to less than a foot in size and defended itself with an unpleasant odor; Crowley always rather smelled of cinnamon and wood smoke), but he still felt the need to make absolutely sure with a cautious, “Crowley?”

“Zzzzzzira,” Crowley answered lazily, lifting his head like it was a great effort and the angel ought to appreciate it. The name was new too, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm up a bit. He’d never been called anything other than Aziraphale, Mr. Fell, and of course, Angel. It was sweet, even if he suspected it was born of of serpentine laziness. “You have another ssssnake I don’t know about?”

Aziraphale smiled tenderly. “Only you, my darling.” A sort of shiver went down Crowley’s back, apparently a physical manifestation of the absolute softness that came into his eyes when the angel called him by that particular pet name. “Quite comfortable?” 

“Yessss.”

Aziraphale lifted his feet into the extra chair and leaned back, letting the warm sun shine down on his face. “It is an excellent day for it,” he said, drinking his tea peacefully.

This interaction appeared to convince Crowley that appearing as a snake wouldn’t upset Aziraphale (as if the angel wouldn’t know his demon in any form). Which led to the following events:

-discovering his snake on a chair in front of the oven while biscuits were baking, half asleep

-dealing with the local constable over a report from a neighbor that there was a “great beast” in their garden (Crowley did nothing to help, as he was too busy snickering in the other room)

-a look of utter disgust somehow being conveyed by a snake’s face when Aziraphale asked, (semi) innocently, how Crowley felt about eating mice, frogs, and rats, as he believed there were mice in Crowley’s gardening shed (“You want to kisssss the mouth that eatsss miccce? Never knew you had sssuch a kink, Zzzira.”)

-the appearance of a few additional sunning rocks designed to catch the most warmth at different times throughout the day

-half a day of Crowley refusing to look at or talk to him when Aziraphale came home with a box of chocolate frogs (it was hard to believe they had been known to give each other the Silent Treatment for decades, once upon a time)

 

Despite his growing familiarity with Crowley’s tendency to turn reptile, Aziraphale found himself uncertain of the proper etiquette when the being you were in love with was sometimes an animal. He petted Crowley’s human form quite freely. For example: Crowley had a tendency, when Aziraphale was reading, to maneuver himself into such a position that his hair was conveniently close to the angel’s hand. But did this extend to the Serpent? Maybe it felt strange, being touched when he had scales. 

Of course, he could just _ask_ , but the supposed wisdom of millennia had not made him so different from Crowley, in this area.

Therefore, it was nearly a year before the opportunity to touch the Serpent came up. Summer was back, and so anytime Crowley disappeared Aziraphale checked the garden first. On this particular day, however, Aziraphale was so deeply involved in a recently released collection of essays on the Nature of Man (most of it hilariously inaccurate, but bless them for trying) that he didn’t realize the weather had turned until every window in the house shook with a crash of thunder. 

“Oh dear,” he muttered, shaking himself back into the real world (bits of him tended to slip into another realm when he wasn’t paying sufficient attention) and calling Crowley’s name. When there was no reply, he hurried to the garden door and peeked out. Another loud crash filled the air and rain started spattering down as the large, sleepy snake on his sunning stone raised his head groggily.

“’Sssss Wet,” Crowley complained, shaking his head. Lightning flashed, much closer than Aziraphale cared for in these uncertain days when replacements for their corporeal forms might be impossible to acquire. 

“My dear!” Aziraphale yelped and, without fully thinking it through, he darted out into the rain and reached out, gripping the coiled Crowley and lifting him with a grunt of effort. A seven foot snake was heavy, he realized, even as Crowley gave out a yelp of his own.

“You’ll drop me!” he hissed.

“I most certainly will-” Aziraphale grunted and draped the heaviest part of Crowley’s long body over his shoulders, “-not! Now stay still, we’re going inside.”

Crowley, bemused, didn’t quite stay still. He shifted across Aziraphale’s shoulder, curled around his waist. Aziraphale fluttered indoors and closed the door on another flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, and hoped it hadn’t just hit their lovely home. “Angel-”

“You must pay attention, Crowley!” Aziraphale collapsed on the sofa, doing nothing to dislodge his demon. Crowley was heavy and cool, his scales pleasant to the touch. The familiar eyes rose into view as Crowley adjusted again around him. “You could have been hurt!” He reached out and traced his thumb along the side of Crowley’s mouth, over his head. The golden eyes half closed in reaction.

“I’m fine, Zzzira,” Crowley hissed as soothingly as possible, being a large snake. 

“You wake up so slowly in this form, my dear,” Aziraphale’s heart was slowing down, and the strange, sudden panic bleeding away and making his muscles feel oddly weak. Sometimes, his body was entirely _too_ human. “If the lightning had-”

“It didn’t.” Slowly, as if waiting to be discouraged, Crowley lowered his head and bumped it against Aziraphale’s cheek in an affectionate stroke. “You sssaved me.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale humphed. His hand rose and ran along Crowley’s neck. “I . . . perhaps overreacted a bit.”

Snakes couldn’t chuckle, but Crowley did an excellent approximation in a series of amused little hisses. “Perhapsss?”

“Fine! Fine. I did.” He leaned back wearily, feeling a flash of guilt. “And I am sorry for the man-demon?-handling. I didn’t even ask if you minded me touching you.”

There was a little squeeze before Crowley slithered around him, curling up his (reduced for convenience) bulk in Aziraphale’s lap and looking at him with an odd tilt of his head. “Assk? You never have to assk, ridiculous angel.”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly. “But-I’ve never-”

“Thought you didn’t want to. Thought bothered you.” Talking was more of a chore as a snake, the low hiss of his voice, so grammar wasn’t a great concern to Crowley in this form. “Didn’t push.”

“Bothered me? My dear serpent,” Aziraphale answered with feeling, “you are beautiful like this. And so decadent, taking in the sun.” He smiled, fingers running delicately along the coils. “And I was terribly curious.”

Crowley stretched his head up lazily, turned as if to slither off Aziraphale’s lap, and then stopped. “Sstay?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course, darling. Let me make a cup of tea. Shall I read to you? There’s a terrible essay claiming that an extended metaphor about nectarines reveals the meaning of man that I know you’ll find hilarious.” 

Crowley considered this, then slithered onto the sofa. Aziraphale felt the familiar eyes on him as he made tea and returned, carefully balancing his cup, a small saucer of tea (how Crowley managed to roll his eyes in this form was a mystery, but he did) just in case, and his book. He settled onto the comfortable sofa they’d chosen together, and smiled as Crowley coiled and draped himself comfortably across his lap. “Ready, then?”

Crowley perched his chin on one long coil, looking somehow very pleased with himself. “Carry on, Angel,” he hissed happily.

And so, Aziraphale did, stroking along the dark scales as he read aloud.


End file.
